


how did we end up kissing so quickly

by LaJoyless



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Not Quite) Porn with Plot, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, BDSM (mentioned), Blaise says weird things, Draco smirks A Lot, Feelings, Harry Potter is Confused, Less sex happens than you'd think, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Polyamory (referenced), Post-Hogwarts, References to Drugs, Sex Club, This is written for my girlfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 08:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16888743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaJoyless/pseuds/LaJoyless
Summary: Harry likes to come to a rather risque club every now and again. He doesn't expect to have feelings too.In which Draco smirks a lot, kissing happens rather suddenly, Blaise talks to a wall, and less sex happens than you'd expect.





	how did we end up kissing so quickly

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday present to my very lovely girlfriend. It's based on the night we met, where I'm Harry and she's Draco. Our boyfriend is Blaise, and yes he says things like this often.
> 
> Dedicated to someone I love very much. I love laughing with you and being with you, and bemoaning the fact that our boyfriend keeps calling himself the Merchant of Death.
> 
> Happy birthday. <3
> 
> Note: this fic takes place in a sex club, but Harry and Draco have very little sex. Might be disappointing to those who wanted the hardcore kink. Sorry!
> 
> PS: Sorry for using the word 'nice' so many times.

Harry lifts the glass of red wine, too cheap and too bitter on his tongue, and drinks as he watches from the shadows. He knows a few people here, people he’d seen once in a while at parties, people who didn’t know who he was, but for now he enjoys the rare anonymity afforded to him by the shadows in a quiet corner.

His shirt feels too tight around his neck—though not as tight as the ropes that are sinuously wrapped around the woman’s legs like snakes, as she’s hoisted into the air. Her rigger smiles lecherously as he pulls one ankle up to the point, her Achilles tendon as sharp as an arrow where her body strains against the contortion. He’s not the only one watching; several people mill around the point, and opposite where he’s standing, a large man sits with three petite Asian women curled under his arms. Somehow, they all seem to fit magically, as though he’d cast an Undetectable Extension Charm to allow all three women to cram up against his side. The thought makes Harry smile privately, imagining Hermione’s expression of indignation at the prospect of one man and three women. But, he thinks, that’s why he didn’t tell her where he went on those Friday nights out alone. As far as she knew, he was with Teddy and Andromeda. A fine place to be, but Harry had an itch to scratch, and this club was where he could find it.

Club, perhaps, is the wrong word. Men and women stand around smoking indoors, and little white pills brazenly move from hand to hand. He’d even seen a few keys passed around. Harry stuck to his wine, two bottles of the cheapest Muggle wine he could buy. He’s here to indulge. He’ll save his money for the good liquor another time.

A rustle at his shoulder draws him from his reverie, just as the woman suspended lets out a shriek when a cane flicks her hard on the base of her feet. Harry turns to see Cormac McLaggen, a teasing smile on his face, his hair slicked back with far too much product. He’d improved since Hogwarts; or perhaps it was knowing they had this common interest that made him more bearable. Again, a smirk came to his face when he thought about telling Hermione just  _ who _ he was spending his Friday nights with.

“Enjoying the view?” he smirks, taking a pull from his own beer.

Harry shrugs. “Why else would I come? This whole party practically begs for voyeurism.” Cormac laughs, and Harry grins, can’t help the joke that comes next. “If a scene happens and nobody is watching, did she really get dommed?”

Cormac rolls his eyes, choosing not to dignify that with a response. “Why don’t you give it a go? I know there’d be someone willing to tie you up. Or let you cane them.” He gestures at the darkened mass of people, laughter and sobs reaching the pair’s ears. “It’s a smorgasbord of options, really. The switch’s delight."

“Hmm,” Harry murmurs, thinking about it. It had been too long since he’d done a scene. Too many casual encounters had meant that while they were fun, they never quite scratched the itch. He could never get deep enough, not knowing the other person well enough. “Nah,” he dismisses the idea. “I don’t know anyone here well enough. And while I’m more than happy to be a voyeur, I’m not much of an exhibitionist.”

Cormac flicks his eyes from the girl to Harry’s face, expression unimpressed.

“Well… for some people, I guess.”

Cormac hums skeptically, but instead just takes a long pull of his beer. After a moment, when Harry had drifted his attention back to the now crying and inverted woman, Cormac speaks again.

“In that case… more drinks?”

“Fuck, yes.”

* * * 

Everything is slightly blurry, he notes absently, but in a good way. A way that makes him think of nights by the Gryffindor fire. He feels too warm, so he’s stripped off his shirt, left only in a pair of tight jeans. Compared to what some others are wearing, he feels rather tame. He’s sitting against a bed, enclosed by a haze of smoke from nearby patrons, and watching lazily.

Cormac’s gone somewhere--Harry can see him, if he looks, being flogged against an A-Frame by a pretty little redheaded girl he thinks might be Ginny, but that thought is too strange to pursue so he lets it go. But that’s okay. He still has another bottle of wine and he’s more than content to just watch for once, not to be watched.

He’s in the middle of an extended musing on the benefits of kink as to anonymity when a movement beside him grabs his attention. He’s finding it hard to focus and he’s annoyed because he was seconds away from reaching some, he’s sure, brilliant conclusion, possibly a life changing one, and he’s immediately irritated at whoever it is who sat next to him. Even a few moments of staring can’t push through the haze of wine, so he watches the tentative smile on the person next to him drop slightly before it hits him who he’s looking at.

“Malfoy?” Harry hazards a guess, the confusion of the last few moments lingering in his tone. The smile on the blond’s face disappears quickly, turning into a scowl.

“Draco, actually.” Draco’s eyes won’t seem to meet Harry’s, which is just as well because Harry is, par for the course, rather confused.

“Did you get rid of your last name?” he wonders, hoping that will clear something up because really why is Draco Malfoy or possibly just Draco sitting next to him as a kink club on a Friday night when he probably has other things to do. Like making potions. Or braiding his mother’s hair. Whatever it is a Malfoy, or not Malfoy, does these days with a father in prison and a Ministry-controlled family fortune.

“What--no.” Draco stares at Harry incredulously, before seeming to decide it’s not even worth trying to figure out what’s going through Harry’s head. A pause. “Are you drunk, Potter?”

“Hmm, yes,” Harry confirms happily, languishing in the warm alcohol pounding through his veins. “Are you?”

“No,” and there it is, the Malfoy smirk, and suddenly Harry feels a lot less confused. But still drunk. “But alcohol isn't the only way to have a good time.”

Suddenly, Harry remembers. “That’s right. I saw you before. With a Muggle key doing some of that thing. Rocaine.”

“Cocaine,” Draco corrects.

Harry waves away the correction. “It’s why I didn’t know it was you. Doing muggle drugs off a muggle key. Why not do locaine off your Gringotts key? Plus you’d get more on there.”

“Cocaine--” Draco says, almost as an impulse, before looking down at his hands. “I have to go to the Ministry now to get access to my funds. Mother and I don’t have the keys anymore.”

“Oh.” Some uncomfortable feeling runs through him--guilt, maybe, but that’s too hard to think about right now, so he doesn’t. Instead he notices Blaise, because of course it’s Blaise Zabini who is looking at a wall and seems to be having a very intense argument with the bricks.

“What’s Blaise doing?” That’s the wrong question, of course, because anyone can see what Blaise is doing, it’s really just why he’s doing it. But maybe Draco will understand. 

Draco looks up. He really seems to take the question seriously, squinting at Blaise intensely as if he can look into the man’s mind if he tries hard enough. Harry watches Draco instead. While Draco is confusing, at least he’s not having a conversation with a wall.

“Acid,” Draco finally says, as if that explains everything. Harry has no idea what that is, and really it sounds rather painful, and while pain can be pretty intense--Harry has enough experience with it to know that--it’s never made him talk to walls. But really, all of a sudden, he realises that while Blaise certainly is a mystery that he would like to solve, Draco sitting next to him is an even bigger one.

“Why are you here?” he asks abruptly. Harry’s never been very good with subtlety, and the one time he’d tried to sneak around the issue at hand, it had led to Draco bleeding on the floor of a bathroom. So maybe it’s better the wine has loosened his tongue enough to ask.

The smirk is back. “Same reason you are, I suppose,” Draco drawls, corner of his mouth ticked up in a way that makes Harry suddenly irritated and want to smooth it back down.

“What, you’re too drunk to stand, too?” Harry asks, distracted still by what he is quickly realising are really very nice lips, even if he can see a few little traces of white powder just above them.

“Oh, you mean--here, at the club.” Draco shrugs, and Harry tries not to stare too interestedly at the movement of his shoulders, but it’s hard work. Harry doesn’t like hard work, so he doesn’t try all that hard. “It’s nice, I suppose. I know the word nice might seem incongruous with a sex club--” Harry is momentarily distracted by how pretty the word incongruous sounds on Malfoy’s lips and now he’s realising that maybe he had a little too much wine. “But it can be nice to just … come here and people aren’t staring at me with hatred and this,” he gestures down at his forearm where Harry recognises, with a pang, a faded scar that he knew too well, “is barely noticed. So I just … come here. Do whatever. Look after Blaise,” he adds with a smirk in Blaise’s direction, who was now accidentally making light shoot from his wand and looked desperately confused by it.

“I thought it wouldn’t be there,” Harry blurts, then flushes. Definitely too much wine. It wasn’t what he wanted to say and now he had to explain. Draco looked definitely taken aback. But his expression softened, for some reason, and Harry was rather surprised he wasn’t just punched in the face.

“Me too,” Draco admits, and his voice is soft, and Harry desperately wishes they weren’t having this conversation five feet away from a pair of men sixty-nining, but he’ll take what he can get. “I thought--maybe, at the end, after he fell, it’d just … disappear. Like it had never been there.” He shrugs, bitterly. “Instead it hurt just as badly as it did when he gave it to me. Except now it doesn’t move. Just another fucking reminder.”

He sighs, clenching his eyes shut as if he’s trying to shake the sudden mood, and Harry doesn’t know what to do but when Draco opens his eyes it seems like he does.

“Here,” and Draco takes long fingers and grasps Harry’s hand, bringing it to the twisted scar, encouraging with Seeker’s fingers to stroke along the skin. “See? I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

And Harry is so overwhelmed he can’t do anything but let his head fall onto Draco’s shoulder, and all of a sudden it just seems very difficult to stay in this club. “I’m sorry, you know,” and he doesn’t know why he’s saying this, and if Ron was here he’d be scandalised, but he just knows that he needs to say it but he can’t explain and he hopes he doesn’t have to.

He doesn’t. “I know,” Draco says, and maybe that’s a smile in his voice, and that’s definitely those long fingers through his hair. It feels nice. “You can’t save everyone, Harry.” And it’s nice being Harry and not Potter.

He turns his face and speaks into the side of Draco’s neck. The skin is very soft, here, and he likes it. “I tried to.”

Draco only holds him tighter. “I know.”

There’s no reason not to, not really, so Harry lets himself stay there for a little while.

* * * 

It’s strange how Harry can’t really remember how they got to this, but somehow he’s gone from wanting to cry to laughing with Draco fucking Malfoy, and maybe they kissed a bit. It wasn’t the revelation Harry was expecting, but all of a sudden they are making out like, Merlin, like Harry has wanted to do since third year and he never let himself realise until it was actually happening.

It doesn’t feel like fireworks or explosions and it doesn’t feel like he’s been Imperiused. He just lets Malfoy explore his mouth because it feels nice to just  _ let _ himself want for once, and Draco’s teeth are sharp and tug against his lips every now and again. Whenever they pull back they laugh and keep talking and Harry is wondering when they’re going to bring up what they’re doing, but they don’t, and that’s okay. He has a bite mark on his shoulder and it really fucking hurts and now he kind of understands Blaise Zabini, because it’s the sort of hurt that makes him want to tell everyone about it, and that includes the walls, if only they’d be polite enough to listen. He realises Draco is saying something, but it doesn’t seem important so he just kisses him again, and Draco huffs a laugh against his mouth and surrenders now to Harry.

They always had this push-and-pull through Hogwarts, so it makes sense that they’d keep wrestling for dominance in the kiss now. If Harry lets Draco win more often than not, he doesn’t need to know. 

Draco’s hands are playing with the waistband of his jeans and nothing else seems to matter but apparently Harry has been kissing him wrong because Draco is aware enough to notice that all of a sudden, Blaise is staring down at them.

Draco pulls away, and if Harry lets out a little whine at the loss, everyone is nice enough not to address it. 

“What?” Draco snaps, and thank Merlin his voice is as husky and desperate as Harry is sure his is, because if he was the only one feeling this way that would be very embarrassing.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” Blaise asks, and Draco nearly growls but still stands up, an apologetic look at Harry, and drags Blaise away like a man on a mission.

Harry lets himself fall back onto the bed, hands drifting absently over the mark Draco’s left. He could get up and get more wine, but the haze is now lust-fuelled instead of alcohol-driven, and it feels much nicer. Draco comes back as Harry is tracing the same line across his pants that the blond was, and he’s smiling down at Harry, and he already knows what Draco has to say.

“I have to go,” Draco says apologetically, but really Harry doesn’t feel any disappointment, just a desire to kiss the man again, so he does. Draco lets him for the moment, before pulling back and explaining. “Blaise just very seriously told me he was the Merchant of Death, and I think that means it’s time to get out of here.”

“Master,” Harry says absently, as he spots Blaise who seems to be, again, very seriously telling the walls goodbye.

Draco pauses, which is odd, as there hadn’t been one hint of hesitation when he was pinching Harry’s nipples earlier. “Can I owl you? And see you one night, this week, maybe?”

Harry blinks owlishly. “Oh.  _ Oh. _ ” Unbidden, a grin breaks out across his face, and Draco relaxes as if he already knows, and really, they’ve always known too much about each other. “Yes. Soon. Please.”

“Great,” Draco laughs, and once upon a time Harry might have expected him to say ‘grand’ or ‘splendiferous’, and it’s comforting to see that Draco’s changed as much as he has. They kiss, quickly, gently, so different to the others they’ve shared, but it still feels just as easy.

They break apart, reluctantly, and Harry wants to suddenly ask to come home with them, but Blaise appears again and shakes his head. “You can’t come,” Blaise tells him, reluctantly. “I need Draco to help me find the invisibility cloak.”

Draco looks bemused, and Harry is tempted to tell them it’s in his trunk at home, but he supposes, he waited nine years for Draco. He can wait a week.

The pair leave, and Draco looks back over his shoulder which makes him smile, and then they’re gone. He stands there a moment, and resolves to find Cormac, which is far too easy, because he’s being ridden by a girl he now  _ definitely _ knows is Ginny, and that’s when he decides it’s time to head home, too. 

* * * 

It turns out he  _ can’t _ wait a week. He waits three days, and when no owl comes, decides he’s going to owl Draco, and of course that’s when two owls literally pass each other on the way through Harry’s window, and he suddenly regrets how desperately manic he sounded in his plea to Draco.

It’s okay, though, because Draco asks to come over tonight. There’s no mention of the Manor, and maybe that’s because he remembers what happened to Harry there, but Harry thinks that maybe Draco’s memories of that house are even worse.

So of course he says yes, and his owl comes back without a letter, but that’s okay because there’s nothing more needed to say.

* * *

Harry has a long day of doing absolutely nothing. After the war, he thought--and everyone else thought, too--that he’d join the Aurors and probably be Head Auror within a month. It was only when Ginny broke up with him and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was killing himself with responsibility and guilt and it was killing her too, that he realised he’d never been selfish in his life. Well, maybe once or twice, but he’d barely ever done anything for himself.

So now he spends his days sleeping in and doing crosswords in the Prophet (and he’s awful at them, and when Hermione comes over she usually fills them in for him, and Harry likes to tell people he did them, but he doesn’t think he’s fooling anyone), but today is different. Or, he does the same things he always does, but he’s doing them anxiously, and realises that he’s written DRACO as the answer to at least three sections on the crossword.

He has a nap, because there’s nothing better to do and Kreacher insisted on cleaning the house for him, popping over from Hogwarts, because ‘Master Harry never does it right’ (which is a fair assessment, really--since leaving the Dursleys’ he’s become pretty awful at cleaning as an act of quiet rebellion). By the time he wakes up he’s just had enough time to shower and bemoan his hair once more, though he refuses to use Sleekeasy because there’s too much self-indulgence in that, when the fire turns green and Draco is stepping forward into his living room.

Harry had imagined this moment since they’d left the club, but none of it comes to light. They could just start kissing again but instead Draco just looks a little awkward, so Harry blurts out, “firewhiskey?” and without even waiting for an answer and before Draco’s even replied he’s done two shots and poured a finger for his--whatever this is. Date. Friend. Arch-enemy who became really hot.

Date is probably the right word.

Draco, to his credit, just steps next to Harry and easily drains the glass, staring at the mark he’d left on Harry’s shoulder that he may or may not have made sure Draco would be able to see, and just that lingering gaze gives Harry a little more confidence.

It’s easy, from there. They sit down for dinner and realise that all the old things don’t need to be brought up again; they both know how they feel about it and there’s things he’d much rather learn about Draco now. It’s sweet watching him talk about his job as a potioneer, the thought he puts into every word like every one matters--something Harry has never been good at. It’s even sweeter when Draco begins to bemoan the Wizarding Wireless and wizarding music in general, which surprises Harry because he’d never have thought Draco would criticised wizarding culture at all, but he’s not wrong, either. It’s how they end up on the bed, bottle of firewhiskey passed between them, while Draco charms Harry’s radio to pick up a few muggle stations he likes.

Harry is content to just watch Draco as he sings, or as he rants about the meaning behind one song or another, and he speaks up only when Draco wants an answer, but he’s becoming unable to think about anything except the way Draco’s eyes shine when he’s passionate, or the movements his fingers make like they’re trying to tap along to the beat. It doesn’t take long for Harry to speak up.

“Can I kiss you?” and Draco’s eyes widen, but he smiles, and rather than granting such a silly question a response, he kisses Harry first.

He can taste firewhiskey and smoke and something like flowers, but this time it’s different, and now finally allowed, they wrestle, truly, properly. Harry’s fairly sure that Draco pulls out a chunk of his hair, and there’s a bite on his chest that he’s  _ really _ sure is going to scar, but it’s worth it to end up nearly naked, Draco panting on top of him and staring down at him like he’s gotten lost on the Knight Bus but isn’t all that upset about it.

“Can I--” he breathes out, and of course Harry answers yes, and he barely has time to appreciate that both his and Draco’s underwear seems to have been Vanished because suddenly Draco is slicking them both up and taking them in one slim hand, and he’s crying out while the music is still playing. Draco bites him as he finishes, and seconds later Harry falls over the edge too, and everything feels incredibly good and really, it’s stupid he was worrying about this date at all.

“Gross,” Draco mutters from where he’s collapsed onto Harry’s chest, and he can’t help but laugh, and Draco joins in after a moment, and it’s easy from there to sit up and clean off and go back to Firewhiskey and music and laughter.

* * *

It’s a couple weeks later and Draco is searching for one sock that seems to have fallen down behind the bed and Harry is staring at his arse and realising,  _ oh shit. _

* * *

Ron is not happy. He gets over it quickly, though, and devolves into jokes that make Draco want to duel him. Hermione is far too excited and shrieks about inter-house unity, and Harry neglects to mention he’s probably more a Slytherin than Gryffindor. Ginny smirks lecherously and bends to tell Draco something he can’t hear, and by the grin on Draco’s face it seems like he’ll be finding out later tonight anyway. 

Blaise regards him thoughtfully and when they’re outside the pub later that night, he asks Harry on a date too. Draco grins at him, and Harry thinks, _ what the hell. _

* * *

When they say I love you to each other for the first time months later at a party, Blaise says it too. Harry and Draco shrug and say nothing, because they love Blaise too, even if the man insists  _ shazam _ is a real spell and that aliens probably built the pyramids. It’s hard not to love Blaise.

It’s even harder not to love Draco Malfoy.


End file.
